


Glimpses Of What We Could Be

by FictionPenned



Category: The Folk of the Air - Holly Black
Genre: F/M, Whumptober, Whumptober 2020
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-01
Updated: 2020-10-01
Packaged: 2021-03-07 19:47:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,166
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26753074
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FictionPenned/pseuds/FictionPenned
Summary: The harsh, unforgiving metal of her shackles presses into the bruised and broken skin beneath. There is no window in this prison — no manner by which she might judge the passage of time outside of the deepening of her thirst, the persistent rolling of her stomach, and the slow abandonment of hope and will and optimism. With every passing moment, it seems more and more likely that she might die here, wrapped in cold and darkness and discomfort. For a brief, cowardly second, she rues the geas that she had bargained for months ago. If she was still susceptible to glamours, no doubt she would believe that she is asleep on a bed of roses, fully satiated after a feast fit for an entire court, but alas, such cruel kindnesses no longer fool her. Jude is capable only of seeing the world as it is, not as those with power wish it to be.Written for Whumptober 2020 Day 1 - Shackled
Relationships: Jude Duarte/Cardan Greenbriar
Comments: 2
Kudos: 46





	Glimpses Of What We Could Be

Jude shudders.

The harsh, unforgiving metal of her shackles presses into the bruised and broken skin beneath. There is no window in this prison — no manner by which she might judge the passage of time outside of the deepening of her thirst, the persistent rolling of her stomach, and the slow abandonment of hope and will and optimism. With every passing moment, it seems more and more likely that she might die here, wrapped in cold and darkness and discomfort. For a brief, cowardly second, she rues the geas that she had bargained for months ago. If she was still susceptible to glamours, no doubt she would believe that she is asleep on a bed of roses, fully satiated after a feast fit for an entire court, but alas, such cruel kindnesses no longer fool her. Jude is capable only of seeing the world as it is, not as those with power wish it to be.

Thoughts of rescue feel like far-flung fantasy. She may be Cardan’s seneschal, but she is not so foolish as to believe that she is a person of any real value to him. If anything, she is an inconvenience — the only thing that stands between him and a lifelong claim to the throne. Of course, there have been fleeting whispers of affection, moments in which Jude glimpsed something deeper running between them. Sometimes there are flashes of warmth, of desire, of biting vulnerability, but one cannot anchor one’s hopes to flashes. Sparks are too ephemeral. It would take a proper conflagration to break down these walls, melt these shackles into ore, and set her free.

As it is, she resigns herself to a slow, lingering dearth, spent ruminating upon her regrets and running up and down the trail of mistakes that led her to this dreadful fate.

Eventually, another marker begins to track the time — an ache in her arms and shoulders so deep that it threatens to unravel her sanity entirely. Jude attempts to manage it through measured breaths and strategically tightened muscles as she redistributes the weight of her body, but it continues to ravage her as slowly and surely as a current eating away at a riverbank.

It is only when Jude thinks that the last bit of sandy soil threatens to fall into the water and be swept away that light finally sears the inside of her closed eyelids — sharp and foreign and painful.

She no longer has the energy required to summon hope or fear. She can only resign herself to accepting the inevitability of a fate that lies beyond her control.

Hands — warm, frantic, and surprisingly familiar — find the sides of her face and guide it upwards. Words and breath trace her skin, and it takes a long time for her scattered mind to parse meaning from them.

“What did they do to you?”

Perhaps it would be too much to hope for reassurance in the first moments of rescue. Jude would like to be told that everything will be okay, to be reminded that she is in safe hands now, but one cannot expect human kindness from faeries. It is doubly foolish to accept it from someone as capricious and cruel as their High King.

Jude cracks her eyes open slightly, brown gaze wearily seeking out Cardan’s coal-black stare as she musters up enough will to arm her tongue and speak back to him.

“You certainly took your time.”

A hint of a smile dances at the corners of Cardan’s soft mouth — there and gone in an instant as he rises to his feet and examines the metal shackles that bind Jude to the wall.

Jude takes a deep breath and closes her eyes again. She inhales Cardan’s scent, just to make sure that this is real, that he is real, that she is truly being saved. She has been fooled before — by magic, by poison, by exhaustion — and she needs to be absolutely sure that this is not some grand delusion before she gives herself to it.

The restraints around her torn and injured wrists finally give way, and Jude collapses into Cardan. His body is sturdy and firm against hers. His hands sweep over her body to check for unseen injuries with a degree of delicacy that is, perhaps, a touch overwrought. She may be more fragile than anyone else in this world, but she has not shattered yet.

The tips of Cardan’s fingers skate over the torn and crying blisters on her wrists and she flinches. Her teeth sink into the inside of her cheek as she fights back tears. Jude has never been the sort of person who cries easily, and she is certainly not the sort of person that cries in front of Cardan. Gentle though he may seem in this moment, tears can all too easily be forged into a formidable weapon by his hands, designed to be brought out whenever she pushes her luck too far.

Jude runs her tongue over her chapped lips as she whispers, “Can we flee this place first and evaluate the damage later?”

There is a pause — dark and worried and terribly thoughtful — before Cardan’s touch moves to her waist and guides her arm across his shoulders. “I will help you walk.”

Jude is grateful that he does not deign to sweep her feet out from under her and carry her out of the room, but her legs shake with every step. She nearly falls twice, but the High King of Elfhame steadies her before she has a chance to become one with the sordid dirt that lines their path. He guides her first into the safety of a waiting band of soldiers — no doubt commanded by Madoc — and then into the comfort of her chambers.

Jude collapses onto the bed — releasing a cloud of grime and dust and dried blood from her body — and stares up at the ceiling that she never thought that she would see again.

Cardan lingers in the doorway, running a hand through the feathery black strands of his hair as he looks at her — soft lips slightly parted and hardened gaze unreadable. “Feel free to summon me if there is anything I can do for you.”

Something flutters in Jude’s chest — responding a fondness that she reads in his words. It might, indeed, be entirely imagined, but it is the most pleasant thing that she has felt in weeks.

Seemingly in response, Cardan shifts his feet restlessly, driving a booted heel into the floor and he turns his eyes away. “As always, your command is my wish.”

The inversion of the phrase is both bitter and unkind, but Jude’s eyes gleam. She eases herself into a seated position, lifts her eyes to his, and offers up a “Thank you” so quiet that it could pass for a mumbled prayer.

She collapses back upon the bed as soon as the words are spoken, but she hears his reply echo off the ornate walls.

“You’re very welcome, Jude.”


End file.
